


Odds & Ends

by jediseagull



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra, Big Hero 6 (2014), Hawaii Five-0 (2010), Hockey RPF, Original Work, The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner, due South
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Alternate Universe - The Eagle Fusion, Multi, Prequel, Sex Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4130455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jediseagull/pseuds/jediseagull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes and shortfic from Tumblr and the recesses of my GoogleDocs archives, in approximate chronological order. See chapter titles or the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/4130455/navigate">index</a> for fandom and content. Warnings (though there aren't many) are in the chapter notes.</p><p><b>Added 10/10:</b><br/>#15 - Hockey RPF, Regency part II (pre-Carey/PK)<br/>#16 - Hockey RPF, historical navy/marriage of convenience AU (Sid/Geno)<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Big Hero 6 - Pacific Rim AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Canon-compliant major character death.

The day the first kaiju hit San Fransokyo, Tadashi Hamada threw away his acceptance letter from SFU and signed up for the newly-formed Pan-Pacific Defense Corps.

Three years later, Hiro did what he had always done, and followed his brother.

Their jaeger was called Maximum Gundam, because, as Hiro insisted, that’s what it _was_ , and Bandai could take their copyright and shove it. There was a goddamn apocalypse going on.

“Language,” Tadashi said absently.

* * *

 “You’re not the boss of me,” Hiro snapped, but he peeled away from the energetic argument he was having with a tech about whether Max could take Gundam Wing in a fight (and, by extension, which Hiro was a better pilot) and flopped over Tadashi’s shoulders to peer at his code.

“You’re missing a bracket,” he said.

“I am not.” But Tadashi stopped typing anyways, and Hiro laughed in his ear.

“Nah, but I made you look.”

Tadashi poked the pest he called a younger brother in the stomach, and Hiro shrieked and recoiled. “If you’re going to hang around just to sass me, you might as well hit the Kwoon. Gogo’s been feeling antsy.”

“Uh, I like my head where it is, thanks.” But he trotted off, and Tadashi turned his attention back to his work.

“Oh, come on!” Tadashi thumped the monitor, but the code kept flashing its red error message.

“What’s the problem, man?” Wasabi poked his head into the lab. His hair was smoking faintly.

“I’ve got the different protocols in place, but the decision-making system keeps glitching and I’m not sure where the bug is.”

* * *

Wasabi laughed kindly. “You’ll get it. If anyone can come up with a true jaeger AI, it’s you.”

Tadashi sighed, and took his cap off to run a hand through his hair tiredly. “Yeah, maybe. But until I do, how many pilots are going to die fighting kaiju? You heard about Tamsin Sevier?”

“Sad day for everyone. But hey, I’d be more worried about how many pilots are going to die in the Shatterdome. Hiro’s taken over the manufacturing lab.” He pointed at his crisped afro.

Tadashi groaned. “What now?”

“Two words, my friend: laser cannons.”

“Fuck. I knew he was still pissed about Fred saying Wing could blast Max into the ground.” The base shook, and Wasabi yelped.

“So, uh, you gonna stop him before he incinerates us all?”

“Nah. At least I won’t have to deal with this stupid code.”

* * *

 “ _It works_ ,” Tadashi bellowed triumphantly.

The entire control room turned as one to look at him in confusion, and he gulped in a deep breath. “The AI, the one I designed for Max, it works. It’s completely independent and capable of controlling a jaeger, and it always acts to maximize protection of human life. I’ve run all the simulations, and it _works_. Marshall, you gotta let us try it.”

The marshall nodded. “You’ll be deployed against the next attack. But Tadashi,” she said, and he paused in the middle of an incredibly undignified victory shimmy. “I’m not going to lose a jaeger to faulty programming. I want you and Hiro there in the Conn-Pod too, just in case.”

* * *

  _Moving to shield civilian population_.

“TADASHI!”

_Pilot 1 offline. Civilian population secured._

* * *

 “Hiro, you should eat something.”

“Not hungry.”

* * *

 “Do you blame your brother for dying?”

“He shouldn’t have trusted that stupid robot over me. If I’d been piloting, I could have killed that kaiju before it –“

“Your jaeger was protecting the people on that boat.”

“By letting the kaiju rip Tadashi out of the pod!” He exhaled heavily. “Sorry doc, I think I’m done for the day.”

* * *

_Pilot 1 online_.

“Hey, Max.”

 _Hello, Hiro_.

“I’m still mad at you.”

_I do not understand._

“Tadashi is gone because of you.”

 _Tadashi is here_.

“No, he’s not. He’s _dead_ , Max. He’s never going to be here again.”

 _Tadashi is here_.

A video loaded on the main screens. It showed the inside of the Conn-Pod, where Tadashi Hamada tapped a few commands into one of the pull-down controls.

“Okay,” he muttered, and Hiro felt his eyes fill with tears. “Max, you there?”

 _I am here_.

“Tell the nice people who you are.”

 _I am Max, an artificial pilot program. My mission is to protect human pilots and civilians by fighting kaiju_.

“That’s great, buddy.” Tadashi smiled into the camera. “You’re going to help so many people. That’s all for now. The city is safe.”

“Max?”

_Yes?_

“You said your mission is to protect human pilots. Why didn’t you keep him safe?”

 _I am programmed to select the protocol with the lowest risk of casualties. I engaged a protocol with a 50% risk of fatal damage to the left side of my Conn-Pod_. _Tadashi overrode my programming to select another protocol, changing the probability to 95% risk of fatal damage to the right side of the Pod._

“Tadashi was an idiot.”

 _Tadashi wanted you to live_.

“Yeah, I know.” Hiro wiped his eyes. “Sorry, Max.”

_It is alright._

 


	2. Legend of Korra - Post-Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "I didn't know you could sing"

Look, he’s happy for Korra and Asami, okay? He _is_. But they get to leave on their super-secret vacation, and Mako? Mako gets to sit at a desk, sorting through damage claims and doing physical therapy.

The healers have told him the burns will scar, but the warped tissue won’t - they hope - affect his bending.

He gets it. He’s a cop, he knows what triage is. But it stings all the same, just like it stings when Korra and Asami get back from the spirit world and are suddenly Korra-and-Asami.

He’s not alone anymore, never will be again, but Bolin has Opal and Korra and Asami have each other and Wu is busy dismantling the entire Earth Kingdom monarchy. Mako likes being depended upon. It’s not great, realizing nobody needs you the way they used to.  
  
So he asks Chief Beifong for a long weekend and she rolls her eyes but gives him two days off, and Mako steps into the Spirit World twenty-four hours after Korra and Asami get back.

Thirty seconds, and he’s already feeling the prickle of sweat under the bandages. He’s come out in some meadows, bright sun, tall grass, the whole deal. It’s nowhere he recognizes. He’s never been here without Korra, and it’s weird, but not in a bad way. There’s a breeze, and over the next hill a low-branched tree, branches rustling quietly. He strolls towards it, humming absently. It’s a Fire Nation ballad, one he half-remembers his mom singing as a lullaby.

“Leaves from the vine,” he sings quietly. “Falling so slow. Like fragile, tiny shells, na na na na na.”

“Drifting in the foam,” offers a deeper baritone, picking up where he’s forgotten the lyrics. Mako yelps. He’d spaced out, and now there’s a man underneath the tree where there had been none before. And not just any man.

“Holy shit,” he says. “You’re General Iroh.”

Iroh smiles fondly. “You look a bit like my great-grandnephew! Are we related?”

“Uh, no, sir,” Mako says awkwardly. “I don’t think so.”  
  
“No matter,” Iroh replies cheerfully, and pats the blanket that has appeared beneath his stocky frame. “Join me for afternoon tea?”  
  
Well. It’s not like he can say no to _General Iroh_. “Yessir.”  
  
He settles gingerly on the blanket, and Iroh resumes humming as he pours two cups of steaming jasmine-scented liquid.  
  
“I didn’t know you sang, sir,” he says before he can quite help himself.  
  
“I am a man of many talents,” Iroh declares. “Not the least of which is my ability as a tea-maker! Try this.” And he hands Mako one of the tiny porcelain cups.  
  
Mako takes a tentative sip. And then another. The tea is hot enough that it should be burning his tongue, but the heat slides down his throat and curls up in his belly instead, warming him from within.

Iroh is waiting hopefully for his reaction, and seems pleased with what he finds. “Another cup,” he insists.

“All right,” Mako finds himself saying. And it is.


	3. Queen's Thief - Fantasy AU (Take 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Write a short story about one of [these](http://sparklygreyellipses.tumblr.com/post/107497891231/trvvvsh-meeshay-krikor-jabotian) dresses– how it came to be and why and who wore it and what destroyed it.

They put her in a shimmering gown of white and gold, to show she is pure and precious. “It’s such fine material,” the seamstress sighs, hemming it around Irene’s ankles. “What a shame.”  
  
“Indeed. What a pity the _gown_ will be burnt to cinders tomorrow,” Irene says acerbically. The seamstress flinches, and pricks her finger as she slides the last pin free. Blood beads on the tip, and she mutters about not wanting to stain the fabric as she hurriedly withdraws.  
  
No one has spoken about what will happen to her, but Irene is not stupid.

For the past six months, there has been a dragon in the mountain pass. First it took the merchants’ gold. Then it took their horses. It’s a matter of time, people say, before it starts taking the merchants. And with trade all but stopped, their people will starve this winter.  
  
If virgin sacrifices are traditional, princesses are doubly so. The dragon has not asked, but Irene’s father is offering. She eats supper at the high table for the last time, and at the end when she pushes back her chair the entire court stands with her. One or two of the ladies weep, dipping their lashes to blink alluringly perfect tears in the direction of the throne. Her father will need a new wife. The kingdom wants for a son to carry on the line. They leave the throne room behind, and Irene doesn’t look back.  
  
She herself does not weep, not even when the king clasps her hands and kisses her forehead. “I love you, my child,” he whispers into her hair, breath stirring a few strands loose from their braided crown.   
  
Waiting quietly in the courtyard, a small party of mounted guards is ready to escort the princess into the mountains. Irene swings into the saddle, and says, “Goodbye, Father.”

* * *

The guards leave her at the mouth of the pass. They’ll wait there, she knows, to make sure she doesn’t try to flee back home.   
  
And what do they think she would do if she did flee? Throw herself at her father’s mercy? She shakes her head in exasperation. The only way is forward. She rides on.

“Well, this is unexpected,” someone grumbles from overhead.

Her horse, already nervy, spooks. Irene lands hard in the dust, flat on her back, and narrowly avoids having her ribs crushed by her fleeing mount.   
  
High above her, clinging to the mountainside like a supremely oversized lizard on a wall, is the dragon.   
  
It’s….well, it’s a dragon, Irene thinks. The stories got the gist of it right - scales, wings, claws - even if they didn’t mention the way the curiously annoyed look in its luminous golden eyes, the way one of its forelimbs is truncated and misshapen. She considers screaming, then discards the idea.   
  
“You made me get my dress dirty,” she says instead.   
  
“I don’t care,” the dragon snarls. Its voice is like the rasp of steel on stone. “You’re not supposed to be here. Go away.”   
  
That’s just rude. “Why not?”   
  
“I’m a _thief_ ,” the dragon says childishly, and clambers down towards her. Its missing paw doesn’t seem to hinder it at all, and it descends rapidly until the great scaly head is mere feet above her own. “It’s not stealing if people just walk right up and hand things to you. Here, take these sheep. Have this princess. It’s no fun.”

“First off,” says Irene, thinking hard, “Your manners are awful. Your princess has brought you lovely gold embroidery thread, and beautiful silk fabric, even if it’s a little muddy now.” And just like that, it comes to her. She can only go forward. “If you will not accept it as a gift, then you must take it in trade."   
  
"Trade?” It sounds curious, and that is when she knows this will work.   
  
_Got you_ , she thinks triumphantly. “A deal,” she says. “How do you feel about stealing a throne?”

After a long, breathless moment, the dragon bares its teeth in a grin. “Now that,” it growls, “Sounds like _fun_.”   
  
(The dress winds up burned to ash anyways. Irene can’t really bring herself to care.)


	4. Queen's Thief - Fantasy AU (Take 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you,” writes poet John Ashbery, “at incredible speed, traveling day and night, through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents, through narrow passes. But will he know where to find you, recognize you when he sees you, give you the thing he has for you?”

Some time ago, in the kingdom of Attolia, there lived a farm boy named Costis.

_Ten seconds in and you’re already telling it wrong._

_Excuse me?_

_Start at the beginning._

_This is -_

_The_ real _beginning._

_Gods. If you’re going to be so fussy, why don’t you just tell it yourself?_

_Fine. I will_.

For as long as there has been a king or queen in Eddis, there has been a Thief. In the beginning, the demigod Eugenides stole Hephestia’s thunderbolts and set the world aflame, and he would have burned for eternity if the first Eddisian king had not saved him from that terrible fire. So it was that Eugenides rewarded him with two gifts: the blessing of the gods, and the loyalty of his people. And the Thief, who follows in the footsteps of his divine predecessor, is always the most loyal of them all.

It is a point of contention in the court as to whether the Burned God still has a hand on his children, but what is known for certain is that when an assassin leapt at the princess Helen, her cousin Eugenides stepped in front of the blade, and was grievously injured in her defense. Shortly afterwards, Helen’s two older brothers were killed in skirmishes, and her elderly father passed away in his grief.

Helen, of whom nothing had been expected save marriage and babies, was now Eddis. And the court rumors, which had previously attributed Eugenides’ heroics to a secret, forbidden romance, now began to question: was his sacrifice merely that of a man for his beloved, or was he unknowingly guided by the gods themselves, the loyalty of a Thief to his Queen-to-be?

But Eugenides himself was not happy. The idea of romancing his cousin might have made him cringe, but she was his dearest friend and Eddis besides. He would have gladly been her Thief, but he had lost his hand in saving her life. And what good was a Thief with only one hand?

So he went to the altar of the Burned God, and Eugenides prayed for the strength to protect his cousin and her people, and the Burned God answered his prayers.

_And then you went and hid in the mountains for six months, moping and harassing innocent travelers because you were too embarrassed to go home._

_I did not_ mope _._

 _You did too._

But the power bestowed upon Eugenides by his namesake came with a far greater price than the young man had anticipated. Fearing himself a danger to his own people, he fled to the mountains surrounding Eddis until such a time that he felt he could control the god’s blessing.

_Moping._

_Oh, shut up_.

Now, even in the summer, the highest peaks of Eddis are cold and barren. Used to the luxuries of court, Eugenides would have surely starved in those first few weeks were it not for the merchant caravans, hauling goods through the pass between Sounis to the north and Attolia to the south.

The first few wagons were easy pickings. Men expecting a routine trip screamed and ran as soon as he crested the ridge, more concerned with saving their own lives than their cargo. Eugenides, finding himself with rather a larger appetite than he was accustomed to, devoured it all: crates upon crates of grain, barrels of wine, amphoras of olive oil. Once, still hungry after a raid, he even caught and ate one of the fleeing horses, but he found them to be as unpleasant a foodstuff as they were a means of transportation, and thereafter left them with the ruined carts.

 _You_ ate _a -_

_I was wasting away! It was that or the merchants, and frankly I might have made the wrong choice. Horse meat is awful._

After the first lost caravans, the traders started to bring spears with them, then mercenary troops. Finally Sounis and Attolia’s respective kings sent their own soldiers to guard the passes, and Eugenides took extra care to singe their tunics in particular as he sent them all scurrying away.

For you see, Eugenides was now a dragon, and if there is one thing that both Thieves and dragons love, it is their reputations.

With trade all but stopped between their two nations, the kings of Sounis and Attolia consulted their wisest advisors. The advisors, in turn, consulted their histories, and finally they passed a verdict upon the land. A sacrifice was needed, they proclaimed. A virgin of royal blood would mollify the beast.

Whether Sounis bribed them to say as much is anyone’s guess. His bookish heir was still, as the advisors pointed out, a young man, and his purity was therefore questionable at best. Nobody wanted to risk the dragon’s wrath over a false virgin. So the duty fell to the king of Attolia - or, more precisely, to his daughter Irene. She was of an age to be affianced to one wealthy baron or another, but lacking an engagement and in full possession of royal blood, there was little Attolis could do to save his daughter.

Naturally, some of the more enterprising barons saw this as an opportunity. No doubt they hoped that by saving the princess, they would win her - and the crown - for their own 

Clearly, none of them had ever met the princess Irene.

 _Flatterer_.

_Shh, don’t interrupt._

Irene was as fiercely intelligent as she was beautiful, and she had no intention of letting anyone, man or beast, steal her birthright from her. So she found Eugenides in his mountain lair, and did not cower when he stretched his great jaws wide in threat. Instead, she proposed a deal. 

Help Irene take back her kingdom, and the resources of Attolia would be at his disposal. “No more starving in the mountains,” Irene said lightly.

“I like the mountains,” Eugenides grumbled, but he agreed. He did not tell Irene who he was. After all, he thought, Attolia’s resources included her army. And if Eddis needed aid Attolia would now be obligated to send it, even once he had returned to normal. For surely, now that he had guaranteed the protection of his family and his people, his wish had been granted and the gift of the Burned God would expire.

_Like the gods ever make anything that easy._


	5. Original - Real Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Real magic can never be made by offering up someone else’s liver. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back. The true witches know that." - Peter S. Beagle, _The Last Unicorn_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of people on Tumblr tagged this as HP fic. It wasn't intended to be, but you are welcome to interpret it as you like! Death of the author and all that :)

Every summer for as long as she can remember, Parvati has visited her _aaji_ in Bombay. She liked it more as a kid, when she could run around in shorts and a tank top and not have to deal with the leering stares of passing rickshaw drivers, but her _aaji_ is, without question, Parvati’s favorite person to spend time with, so it works out okay. And her friends are always crazy jealous when she comes back each September with twining, intricate designs making their way up her hands and arms. It’s hard not to show them off; they make her feel like the best possible version of herself. But she always shrugs when people ask and says, modestly, “My grandma’s a henna artist.” 

_Aaji_ would smack her if she heard, but it’s hard for Parvati’s friends at home to understand when she tries to tell them about her _aaji_ waking up at dawn to do _puja_ , spending the mornings with the newspaper’s daily crossword puzzle until Parvati wanders in, yawning and in desperate need of toast slathered with thick pats of Amul butter. Once she’s feeling human enough to bear it, Parvati pulls out the mortar and pestle from underneath the countertop _; aaji_ starts lunch and then sits at the table doing her crossword puzzle until, without ever seeming to actually look, she’s determined that Parvati has ground enough of the strong-smelling mehndi leaf for the day’s appointments. 

They eat lunch with the lights off. Bombay in summer is brutal, and her _aaji’_ s flat is old enough that it doesn’t have air conditioning, just sleek brown ceiling fans that stir up the dust. She won’t let Parvati turn them on while there’s loose powder in the house, so they make do, finding the coolest room and sitting in the dark, leaving all the windows open and hoping for a breeze.   
  
Afterwards, her _aaji_ takes the bowl with the fine-ground leaves, adds lemon juice, sugar, and oil, and makes Parvati stir until her forearm aches. They nap while the dye cures, fans buzzing and rattling overhead. _Aaji_ never sets an alarm, but she knows when the dye is ready, just like she knows exactly how much mehndi they need each day, and she gets Parvati up after an hour or so so they can trod back to the kitchen and scoop the paste into cones. 

Before they do, though _, aaji_ takes a clean knife to the ring finger on her wrinkled right hand. She lets seven drops of blood fall into the mehndi, where they’re quickly absorbed by the dark paste. They leave the flat with cones and cones of the stuff tucked away in her _aaji_ ’s satchel, and go to the first address.

“Mehndi is for bringing good things to people,” she’d told Parvati once. “Health, happiness. With a little help, it can bring those things _back_ , even to someone who’s already lost them.” Parvati, all of five at the time, had nodded seriously. And sure, she’s old enough now to know that it’s not exactly scientific - but it _works_. Her _aaji_ will sit down with anyone who’s hurting, cradle their palm in hers, and let loops of green paste spill from the fine-tipped cone onto their bodies. When she’s finished, she makes them sit with their hands over roasting cloves for no less than two minutes, then takes a towel and scrubs roughly at the dried, flaking paste.   
  
Underneath, the designs she’s left are a deep, deep red.   
  
Regular mehndi doesn’t do that, Parvati knows. She’s gotten it once before at a cousin’s wedding, and it took eight itchingly awful hours before she was allowed to scrape it off. Even after all that, it wasn’t as dark as her _aaji’_ s.  

Of course, she can’t _prove_ that her _aaji’_ s makes people feel better. It’s just - if it doesn’t, then that makes a hell of a lot of coincidences. But there’s a rule, too. “No meddling when it’s someone’s time,” she reminds Parvati every summer. 

“But how do you know when it’s someone’s time?” Parvati asks her once. It seems like a reasonable question. There’s no system to which calls her _aaji_ accepts and which ones she doesn’t, no pattern that she can see.  
  
“You’ll know,” _aaji_ says quietly, and that’s the end of it.  
  
She’s right. They get the call in the third week of December, and get on a plane two hours after Parvati’s finished with her last final. When they land, her uncle is there with a car to take them to the hospital.   
  
Her _aaji_ looks so tiny, framed by the metal railings enclosing her bed. She’s breathing through a mask, and she’s so still. They all kiss her forehead, and while her parents are talking to the doctors, Parvati takes one of her _aaji’_ s hands, palm up.   
  
The skin is so pale that even a weak color would show, she thinks.   
  
No meddling, says her _aaji_ , a summer and a lifetime ago. 

Parvati raises that soft, drooping hand to her lips and kisses it through her tears, placing it gently back on the sheets when she’s done.   
  
The machine behind her starts to whine.   
  
It’s late. They can’t take _aaji_ to the crematorium that day, but her parents explain in halting, awkward voices that though _aaji’_ s will specifies that Parvati be the one entrusted with her ashes, it’s not really the done thing for women to attend a funeral.   
  
“If she wanted me there, I’m going,” she says firmly, and with a last glance at each other, her parents give in. They’re too exhausted to fight with her on this. 

She puts on a plain white salwar the next morning, stands resolutely as they light the pyre, and doesn’t flinch away from the smell of smoke and burning flesh.

The ashes, along with a sealed envelop, are delivered to her a few hours later. The lawyer shrugs when she makes a questioning noise. “She told me only her granddaughter should open it.”   
  
She puts _aaji_ on the chair beside her, and opens the envelope. 

It’s a drawing, done in her _aaji’_ s steady, familiar hand. _To bring back happiness,_ it says. 

“Okay,” Parvati says. “Okay.” 

She has to fuss with the proportions a bit, add more oil and lemon to compensate, but she’s satisfied with the final product. She waits for her parents to go out, until she’s all alone.

Her hands are shaky; the lines are uneven.   
  
But when she’s finished, she carries her _aaji’_ s last blessing on her skin - and Parvati feels just a little bit better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: character death.


	6. Original Work - Sex Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the image prompt: [here](http://writeworld.org/post/116576614018/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: body dysphoria as a result of transformation

He’s three shaky steps away from his car when he falls flat on his face and comes up sputtering, dirt in his teeth and smeared all down his front.

Just great.

Spring’s been one long drag of rainy days, though it’s gotten to the point where people are more or less resigned to it. Chicago’s a busy place, and the city doesn’t stop for anything short of apocalyptic amounts of snow. While the damp may be miserable, it certainly doesn’t stop people from going about their daily lives. In practical terms, what this means is that if he tries to go back to his apartment, looking like this, _someone_ ’s gonna notice.

All he’d wanted was to go to the gym, blow off a little steam. He’d been feeling pleasantly tired on the way back, thinking about nothing in particular, when - _wham_. Like someone was beating the crap out of his brain,nogloves. He probably blacked out for a minute; by the time he could open his eyes, his car was lying nose-first in a ditch and he….  
  
He’s not ashamed to admit he’d screamed a little, when he’d pushed away the airbag. Those weren’t his hands. Those weren’t his legs. Those _definitely_ weren’t his tits.  
  
He can feel them now, strange and unfamiliar weights dragging at his chest as he pushes up from the ground. They’re just so - so _uncomfortable_. He would do anything, apologize for every uncharitable thought he ever had about sports bras, if he could just get them to _stop jiggling_.  
  
He crosses his arms over his chest, hoping that’ll do the trick, and pulls a face as he remembers: oh, yeah, mud all over his hands, and now it’s on his biceps too. But he already looks like a walking disaster so it’s not like it makes a difference if he works his hands up and down, trying to keep his circulation going.  
  
Apparently that’s too many things for this body to coordinate. He slips again, swearing as he hits the ground for the second time. He’s still about the same height, but his feet are smaller, sliding around in his sneakers, and his balance is all out of whack anyways. He’s not used to the extra - stuff - on his chest and hips. Something about his joints is off too. His normal swagger doesn’t quite work when his knees insist on being so close together, and his thighs rub on every step as if in consolation for what else _isn’t…_ He doesn’t want to think about it.  
  
He doesn’t know what to _do_ about it.  
  
So he pulls out his cellphone, and does what he always does when the shit hits the fan. (The shit, he’s already established, hit the fan about ten minutes ago, and at this point he’s just trying to deal with the spatter.)  
  
“Hello?” That’s not a happy tone. That’s a why-are-you-calling-at-7AM-on-a-Saturday tone.  
  
But it’s not an answering machine, and that’s enough to make him go weak-kneed with relief.  
  
“Hey buddy,” he croaks, distantly, stupidly aware that his eyes are tearing up. “I need your help.”  
  
“Where are you?” the voice on the other end of the line demands, suddenly sounding much more awake. “What’s wrong?”  
  
He rattles off the number on the nearest exit marker. “I’m not hurt,” he says, trying to keep his voice low. He’s not sure how well it’s working. “I’m just - can you come and get me? Please? I’ll explain then.”  
  
“Give me fifteen minutes.” There’s a dial tone.

He puts his phone away, chafes his arms again. The wet patches on his tank and shorts are cold against his skin, and all the fine hairs on his arms and legs are already bristling. He thinks that if he looks down, he’ll see his nipples poking through the thin cotton, and while that would normally be kind of hot, in a juvenile, locker room kind of way….  
  
Put it like this: he’s about thirty seconds away from having a meltdown over the fact that this body even _exists_. He’s not about to start perving on it.  
  
God, he needs a drink.  
  
No, actually. He needs his dick back. _Then_ he needs a drink.


	7. Due South - Spy AU

The training program was a holdover from the Cold War. Nobody really thought they’d need agents to infiltrate the USSR anymore – the USSR didn’t even exist anymore, broken apart three years ago and counting. It was the Russian Federation across the Bering Strait now. 

But bureaucracy was a slow grind, and shutting down a training base in the midst of the Yukon Territory required a lot of paperwork, all of which needed to be signed and stamped in triplicate. When the base in question was a _secret_ base? Well, things got even more complicated then. It was easier to just cut down on the number of agents being recruited into the program, twenty to ten to two, a quiet end to a quiet institution.

Benton Fraser was the last of a dying breed. It was a real shame, said the higher-ups, shaking their heads. The Fraser name was a bit of a legacy, and the boy had real talent to boot.

It was less of a shame when, five days after graduation, Benton went after the man who had betrayed his father to the Russians, and brought half of Canadian intelligence’s loyalty into question when he did. He wanted to play James Bond? Fine, they said (those of them who were left, anyways. Benton didn’t do anything by halves.) Send him to Russia, and see how he does. It’s what he’s been trained for.

Moscow is….different. His Russian is flawless, and he’s been thoroughly briefed on current cultural practices, but he’s also spent the last five years more or less on his own in the Canadian wilderness. He’s good at what he does, but every night when he goes home to his apartment, after he’s swept it for bugs and closed the blackout curtains, he has to put his head in his hands while he shakes with frustration.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he thinks. He wasn’t expecting pretty girls, glamorous parties – he’s _not_ James Bond, no matter what the agency says about him – but he’d thought that he’d be doing real work here.

Frobisher calls him just once, on a payphone.

“How are you holding up, kiddo?”

“I’m well, thank you,” he says back, in Russian.

“Uh-huh,” Frobisher mutters. “Look, Benton, you just gotta keep your head down for a year or two. Let us clean up the trash, and you’ll be back in no time.” He hangs up.

Benton is fond of Frobisher in the way that one is fond of the slightly batty old uncle who falls asleep in the pudding during Christmas dinner, but the man is _terrible_ at pep talks.

Still, he does what he’s told. He keeps his head down, and if it brings his nose and ears to the ground, he’s always seen things better that way to begin with. He can’t help but feel slightly triumphant when, three weeks later, he catches a break. Russia has been keeping her eyes westward, hungry, and there are those in the former Soviet bloc who are still sympathetic. Several of them will be attending a performance at the Bolshoi, where they can speak in one of the private boxes without fear of interruption.

Benton gets out his tux.

They’re doing _Onegin_ , and the show is excellent. The leads are fantastic, and the man who plays the titular character is haughty and mournful in turn, the extension in his legs and arms so classically perfect that he seems to stretch across the stage with each leap and turn.

Benton has already placed a small transmitter in the box with the visiting politicians, and after he stands and applauds, long and loud, he lets the crowds filter out before he sneaks over to retrieve it. But the performance must be a special fundraiser for the theatre, because when he steps back into the grand entryway the dazzling array of guests are still clustered around men and women even more fantastically dressed – the dancers themselves, making nice with their patrons. Those in a rush have already left. To do so now, he realizes, would be suspicious. So he begins a slow perambulation around the room, giving the impression of stopping by various conversations without ever actually joining them.

The biggest cluster by far is around a young man with a thin face, who – judging by his costume and the sheer quantity of gushing praise – must be Onegin himself. It in that adoring crowed that he sees his targets, and he uses the cover afforded by his program to slip a second transmitter up his sleeve, cradled between wrist and fabric. But his luck, such as it is, runs out. All four men turn to go as he walks up and – well, he could follow them, but Onegin is there, already watching him with a quizzical expression from behind the thick-lensed frames he must shed for the stage.

“Did you enjoy the show?” he asks, in oddly accented Russian.

“Very much so,” Benton replies. It’s the truth. “You danced wonderfully.” Also the truth.

“Thanks,” the man says, and smirks just a little. He sticks his hand out to shake, and Benton takes it automatically. The man makes an odd face as soon as their palms touch, long fingers wrapping around Benton’s, and – huh. That’s a familiar expression stealing its way across his features. God knows Benton’s seen enough of it back home to recognize that particular brand of irritation. But the dancer covers it up almost immediately, and they spend a few minutes in pleasant discussion of the choreography, whether the Royal Ballet should keep struggling along or just give up and admit to Russian superiority.

He doesn’t think the evening has been anything other than an unmitigated success until he goes back to his quiet apartment.

The second transmitter is gone. In its place is a note: _Interpol. We need to talk.  
_

Oh, Benton thinks. He’s _good_.   
  
(But then, so is Benton. He pulls up the information from the tracking device he’d stuck to the dancer’s coat, and hopes he knows what he’s gotten himself into.)  


	8. Hockey RPF - The Eagle AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: canon-compliant slavery

It’s probably not a good sign that Jonathan can’t tell whether the sick feeling in his stomach is horror or just another bout of nausea. He tries to muster his very best intimidating glare anyways. “Thank you, but I am _perfectly capable_ of taking care of myself.”

His uncle Denis hums thoughtfully as he takes in the state of Jonathan’s room, the scattered shards of the plate he’d hurled against the wall three hours ago noticeable even in the dim light that filters through the closed shutters.

He meets his uncle’s raised eyebrow and feels his cheeks heat.

“I meant to clean it up,” he mutters.  
  
He’d lost his temper. It’s been all too common an occurrence in the past few months. Out on the battlefield, maybe those flashes of anger could have been channeled into being stronger, faster, _better_ , instead of childish fits of destruction.

But he’s never going to return to the field. The pension he’d received today had been yet another cruel reminder of that fact.

Some of it, he thinks, probably ought to go towards the household’s dishware budget, which has gone up considerably since Jonathan came to live in Calleva.

He’d been so furious, though. At the legion, for writing him off as a lost cause, and at his own stupid, traitorous body, for making him worry that they were right. Even smashing the plate hadn’t helped - it had only brought on another headache, and he’d had to lie down before he could gather even half of the pieces.

“Well, now you don’t have to,” Denis says mildly. 

Jonathan scoffs before he can stop himself. “So you bought a gladiator just to tidy up?” He’s almost shocked at his own rudeness, but his uncle just shrugs.

“I bought him for you because I was impressed by the way he fought. The boy wants to live.” Denis’s expression is faintly pitying when he adds, “Maybe he can remind you what that’s like.”

That bothers him more than it should. Jonathan is endlessly grateful for his uncle’s hospitality, but sometimes he gets the impression that Denis thinks his reluctance to leave the villa is because he’s _sulking_ \- which is ridiculous. Jonathan doesn’t enjoy being miserable. But he already knows what would make him happy and _he can’t have it_. He will never be a soldier again. All the parties and amusements in the world won’t change that.

Besides, he’d had good reason to turn down his uncle’s invitation to the matches that morning. He’s learned through painful experience that light and noise only make his dizziness worse, and the screaming crowds of the gladiator fights are too much for him even on the very best days.

Now, though, he’s beginning to regret not making the effort to suffer through it, and never mind that he was brought low by the sound of a single breaking dish. A few hours of pain would have been worth avoiding this unwanted intrusion.

Something of his thoughts must show on his face, because his uncle sighs.

“Look,” Denis says, kinder. “If you can’t stand him, Strabo could always use another hand with the horses. But you have so little in the way of regular company - you must be bored, if nothing else. He is near your age. Give him a week, and if you have not changed your mind, we will move him to the stables and consider the matter done.”

“Of course, uncle,” Jonathan says, and refrains from adding that he is _never_ going to change his mind.

But his uncle nods, seemingly satisfied, and they share the evening meal and bid each other goodnight without another word on the subject.

This is, in hindsight, a mistake.

Because the man standing in front of him the next morning may have many qualities that Jonathan doesn’t particularly care about one way or another - but there are two that he can’t ignore.

His new slave is a Briton.

And he is familiar.

He’s grown broad with muscle since they last met, and picked up some scars that testify to his time as a fighter. But the mop of fine, curling blond hair is the same, and underneath it the same bright blue eyes, widening in ill-hidden disbelief, mirroring Jonathan’s own shock.

“This is Patrick,” his uncle says, and through the sudden thunderous pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, a single thought rises with perfect clarity.

I _know._  


	9. Mad Max - Furiosa Prequel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: stillbirth/miscarriage, canon-level discussion of non-consensual sex and death

Furiosa bears Joe two dead sons, expelling them cold and lifeless before their time. They are neither of them whole, and behind his mask Joe seethes. 

It is painfully clear that her body is not built for children. Even pregnant, her breasts never swell with milk. The cradle of her hips stubbornly refuses to widen.

When she miscarries the third child, the guards drag her from the vault. 

It hurts more than she was expecting. But then, if she could not be one of the Mothers, she could still have been _a mother -_ she cannot be either, now.   
  
(It hurts less than Joe was expecting. Joe thinks that she is broken. Joe doesn’t understand that the world is broken too, and her sawtooth edges have only be made to match.) 

She drags herself from the other twisted, ruined scraps, makes herself an arm, makes herself useful, makes herself _valuable_. 

Furiosa kills the first War Boy who tries to make her a bloodbag, and dreams of green things that night, growing wild. 

(Joe thinks she takes life because she cannot give it. He makes her Imperator, and that is his second mistake.)

There is blood on her hands, and between her legs. In her chest, her heart keeps beating.  

Furiosa lives.


	10. Hockey RPF - Reverse Little Mermaid AU

The seal splits his skin, stepping pale and naked and human and _beautiful_ onto the frozen beach, and Geno - for the second time that day, Geno can't breathe.

* * *

He goes to Baba Yaga because she is kinder than the ocean.  
  
(Barely.)

This time, when he slips beneath the waves, he doesn't have any problem breathing.

* * *

Three times. He can shed his skin three times, and no more. If he hasn't won over his mysterious rescuer by the last time, he will crumble away into dust the instant his human body sets foot on land.

That is, if he hasn't starved to death first. He keeps trying to catch fish with his hands, forgetting that he has flippers instead of fingers, and when he finally lunges forward and manages - mostly by accident - to snag a fat halibut in his mouth, he's so surprised that he spits it right back out again. It's gone in a flicker of silver, leaving only a little speck of blood behind.

He's so hungry, he doesn't even notice the other seal until it's practically right in front of him.

Geno startles, but he hasn't figured out how to move backwards yet. And then he stops entirely, because something about the animal's eyes looks familiar.

They stare at each other for a moment, then the seal neatly flips itself around and swims off.

So.  
  
Not his seal after all.

* * *

Only then it comes back, and Geno's pretty sure it's the same seal as before, but this time it's got something _alive_ between its powerful jaws. It releases the wounded puffin right in front of Geno's stunned face, clearly expecting him to do the normal seal thing and catch it.

Instead, they both watch it dart away. Geno doesn't think he's imagining that the expression on the seal's face is somewhere between unimpressed and downright offended.

If this _is_ his seal, Geno's got a long way to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seal!Sid is absolutely inspired by the one seal who kept bringing the photographer semi-dead penguins to eat because she was worried he was going to starve to death like the worst predator in the ocean. Only he couldn't bring Geno penguins because that just felt a little *too* on the nose.


	11. Queen's Thief - Modern Domesticity AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of past animal-on-animal harm (non-graphic).

Costis loves Sundays. On Sundays, Gen wakes up early to make pancakes, shuffling downstairs with his eyes closed until he inevitably trips over the cat and bangs into the wall. Cat has tortoiseshell fur, a name they don’t use, and only three paws from the time she got into a fight with a Doberman, but she’s remarkably hardy and never seems to mind when Gen almost steps on her. By the time Costis makes his way to the kitchen, she’s curled around Gen’s shoulders meowing plaintively in his ear.

“Like you have any room to complain,” he bitches back. “I’ve got two hundred freshmen in Introduction to Ancient History, and my TA is completely useless.

“Speaking of useless,” he adds, brandishing a spatula at Costis without looking at him. “Every week I slave away over breakfast, and what thanks do I get?”

Cat purrs.

“You, I like,” he tells her. “Which means _you_ get to be the one to wake the dragon.” But he pats Costis’s butt fondly before shoving him back towards the stairs.

Costis rolls his eyes and goes. When he’d started dating Gen, he’s not ashamed to admit that Irene had terrified him. His boyfriend’s girlfriend was the sort of person who made grown men cry on a regular basis, not to mention CEO of the multi-billion dollar family business by the time she was twenty. Costis….is not. He likes being a cop, loves helping people and making them feel safe, but his salary is even less than Gen’s, and he certainly doesn’t hold hundreds of people’s livelihoods in his hands. At the time, she’d seemed cold and aloof and very, very intimidating.

It’s easier to remember that she’s more than her money or her success, now that they’re all together. So despite the fact that she actually growls at him when he turns on the lights in their bedroom, he peels back the comforter and sheets and drops a kiss on the scrunched up scowling face that appears. “Come on, pancakes.”

She grumbles wordlessly, and Costis holds up his bribe: the fleecy bathrobe he’d thrown over the towel warming rack before going downstairs the first time. Irene lets herself be coaxed from the bed and bundled into it, and she’s already yawning and looking more human as she follows him back to the kitchen.

Gen’s been busy in their absence. A stack of pancakes are waiting on the table, along with a protein shake for Costis and a mug of coffee liberally dosed with honey for Irene, who more or less falls face-first into it like it contains the answers to the universe.

“I feel so appreciated,” Gen drawls.

“As you should,” Irene says when she emerges, cup drained. “We’d obviously starve without you - oh wait, no, that’s Costis.”

“I can cook!”

Irene just raises an eyebrow, poking skeptically at this week’s offerings.

Gen probably _could_ cook, is the thing - his pancake batter is technically perfect, and the pancakes themselves always come out light and fluffy - but he insists on doing what he calls ‘experimenting’.

This week they’re green and appear to have chunks of grapefruit rind in them. Costis steels himself and takes a bite.

“Huh,” he manages after a moment. It was almost palatable. (Almost.)

“Aha,” Gen says. “So there!”

“All I said was ‘huh’.”

“You didn’t start choking. I count that as a victory.”

Irene pushes her chair back from the table silently, and comes back five minutes later with a plate of pastries they’d picked up from the local bakery yesterday.

“Yeah, okay,” Gen says sullenly, and grabs a croissant. “But just wait 'til next week.”  
  
(Costis is looking forward to it.)


	12. Hockey RPF - Animal Transformation AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt on the Sin Bin: Somebody's tumblr tag for Geno calls him a Siberian husky puppy and all I want in the world is fic where, whenever he's incredibly stressed out, that's what he turns into and he likes it best when it's Sid's day to look after him.

Geno is conspicuously absent after they lose Game 5.  
  
Partly, it’s a hockey player thing. Sid’s only ever played with the Pens since coming to the NHL, but he’s been around the sport his entire life. There are guys with some weird fucking coping mechanisms. People think Sid’s strange for being so particular about his superstitions, but honestly - Beau managed to explode every lightbulb in the locker room when he won his first game back after his broken wrist. Flower sprouts _actual roots_ when he gets really upset, and more than one rookie’s fallen flat on his face because he didn’t watch where he was walking after a bad loss. 

Partly, it’s a Russian thing. Sid’s never seen Ovechkin shift after a game - even after World Juniors - even after _Sochi_ \- but he spends half the off-season romping around Moscow as a massive, shaggy-haired sheepdog for no apparent reason. Sid doesn’t get it; then again, that’s how he feels about most of the things Ovechkin does.  
  
So the magic is a hockey thing, and the shape-shifting is a Russian thing - but the disappearing act? That’s a Geno thing.  
  
Which makes finding him a Sidney thing, at least according to the rest of the team.  
  
“You’re the captain,” Kuni says grimly. “Besides, he likes you best anyways.”  
  
Which is why Sid’s wandering around the emptying stadium, trying to avoid running into any of the Rangers. They’re probably already off celebrating, and meanwhile Sid has to face Flower - and worse, fucking _Duper_ , who might never be healthy enough to play again - empty handed. God.  
  
“Come on, G,” he mutters, bending down to check under the massage tables in the trainers’ room. “I wanna go home.”  
  
Something whines out in the hallway, high and familiar.  
  
Geno always claims he’s a Siberian Husky - “Good Russian dog,” he says, every time they see one on the street - but he’s got the sloping hips and and long legs of an East European Shepherd, with the temper to match. Nealsy had once suggested that Geno might be half _German_ Shepherd, and it had taken Sid and Paulie both to haul him away from the corner where he’d pinned his linemate, snarling and bristling.  
  
In any case, he’s really too big to be so good at hiding. Sid probably would have walked right by him if he hadn’t made any noise - and Geno wouldn’t have made any noise unless he’s hurting. Sure enough, the black and cream dog Sid finds behind the loaded dolly is standing on three legs, whimpering every time it tries to put weight on its left hind foot. It shoots Sid a pathetic look, tail drooping, and takes a hopping step forward.  
  
“You better not have made your ankle worse….” Sid grumbles, but he kneels obligingly and scoops Geno up. Apart from the claws, it’s a lot easier than trying to lift Geno as a human, and Geno’s either too tired or too upset to stick his nose in Sid’s ear like he usually does when he’s trying to cheer Sid up.  
  
Geno stays a dog during their flight back to Pittsburgh. He stays a dog when Sid carries him to the passenger seat of his sedan, and he stays a dog when they drive back to Sid’s sprawling, empty house.  
  
“If you’re not going to change back, I’m feeding you kibble,” Sid says. Geno just limps over to the sofa and clambers up awkwardly, still favoring his sprained ankle. That’s - a little worrying, actually. Geno hates kibble, refuses to eat it when he can steal bites of steak and steamed veggies instead, and he knows Sid. He knows that Sid’s going to want to make another post-game meal before he goes to bed and that Sid’s weak against soft brown puppy eyes.  
  
If he’s being honest with himself, Sid’s weak against _Geno_ , which is the only explanation for why he sits on the sofa and digs one hand cautiously into the thick ruff on the side of Geno’s neck instead of following through on his threat. “You should eat something, G.”  
  
Geno heaves a sigh and uncurls a little, flopping over backwards onto Sid’s hand when he stops scratching for a moment. He sighs again when Sid gets up to reheat the chicken and pasta Nathalie had brought over a few days ago, but he grudgingly consents to eat the sliced chicken breast Sid’s warmed up for him, snapping pieces from Sid’s fingers while Sid shovels in his own mouthfuls with his free hand.  
  
“Alright,” Sid says, when they’ve finished. “Bed.”  
  
He snags a thick afghan from the hall closet in case Geno shifts back overnight, and is halfway up the stairs to his own bed when the howling starts, equal parts piteous and demanding.  
  
Sid’s exhausted. They just got kicked out of the playoffs by the Rangers, _again_. He’s really not in the mood to deal with Geno’s sulking, and for a mean, furious second he thinks about going upstairs and slamming the door, letting Geno throw the tantrum that Sid won’t allow himself. The season’s over, and if Sid gets his way they’re going to be facing each other at Worlds in a few weeks. Sid won’t be Geno’s captain; he won’t even be Geno’s teammate.  
  
But Sid knows that’s a lie even as he thinks it. Geno may wear a different jersey, an unfamiliar number - but his Team Russia gloves will stay in their packaging, untouched. Because Geno wants the world to see - he’s a Penguin.  
  
And maybe that means he’s Pittsburgh’s, or the team’s, but it means he’s Sid’s, too. No matter what.  
  
Sid turns around.  
  
Geno’s managed to make his way to the bottom of the stairs, but he can’t climb them like this. He huffs a wet, doggy breath across Sid’s shoulder when Sid picks him up; Sid huffs back, but he makes it up the stairs without dropping his cargo or falling over backwards. “Happy now?”  
  
In answer, Geno eels through the gap in the master bedroom door, and Sid pushes it all the way open to find Geno settling on top of the comforter with a pleased wriggle.  
  
Sid pulls a face. “Shove over, then.” Geno doesn’t shove over, but he stretches a paw over Sid’s chest like he’s worried Sid might try to leave again, and promptly falls asleep.  
  
The weight is kind of comforting. Sid drifts off to sleep listening to the quiet whuff of Geno’s snores, and wakes up wrapped in an arm that is equally possessive, if significantly less furry. “Morning, G.”  
  
“Shh,” Geno mutters into the back of Sid’s neck. “Early, Sid.”  
  
“Locker cleanout today.”  
  
“ _Early_ ,” Geno protests, but he groans and sits up when Sid rolls away, shuffles downstairs and starts boiling water for tea while Sid cracks six eggs into a bowl for omelettes.  
  
“Turkey bacon?”  
  
“You _best_.”  
  
“Not good enough to get us through the first round,” Sid retorts, but it stings less than it should.  
  
“Best,” Geno says again. “Pack, of course, is best.”  
  
It’s Sid’s turn to feel like it’s too early. “Pack?”  
  
Geno sighs, put-upon. “Sid. For humans, is team. For dogs, is pack. Sid best captain of team, but Sid also take home, feed, cuddle. Best pack, too.”  
  
“Oh,” Sid says. “Uh. Thanks?” A thought strikes him. “Are any of the other guys -”  
  
“No, Sid.” Geno says, shaking his head. “Am hurt! Pack for years and you not notice. But is okay. Still best.” He leans in and drops a fond kiss on Sid’s forehead before wandering out to the sofa with his plate of food.  
  
Sid blinks.  
  
Huh. Maybe there are a couple other things he hasn’t noticed.  
  



	13. Hockey RPF - Regency AU

It was the season of art, and it was the season of poverty. The latter, of course, was in service to the former, but there was an artfulness to poverty as well; the delicate juggling of finances stretched thin in order to secure a good match - good, in this case, meaning profitable. 

Having a season at all was terribly expensive, much less the kind of season Carey needed, but his parents had scraped and scrimped and come up with the money from somewhere. So Carey had fine coats for hunting and silk cravats for parties and an address in London at which he could receive callers, should he prove sufficiently charming as to attract any. This was almost as great a worry as the finances. Carey was not much of a dancer, and though he could sit a horse with the best of them, the clamor of the hunt was no setting for romance. He had been a quiet boy, though, grown into a quiet man, and all he really craved was to return home to his family’s country estate with the hounds and the horses.

There would be no estate to return to should he fail, however. That, more than any reason save one, kept him from taking the next train out of the city.

The other reason, of course, was PK.

Pernell Karl Subban was twenty-six years old and in possession of such extravagant taste that he could spend even the grandest of fortunes on clothing alone - and PK had a very grand fortune indeed. But he also had a generous spirit and a compassionate heart, and he had been Carey’s dearest friend since the moment Carey had been introduced to him at a luncheon hosted by their mutual acquaintance Lord Therrien two years ago. They often bickered - Carey took issue with PK’s profligate nature, and PK was at constant odds with Carey’s unwillingness to attempt the social engagements required by the ton - but they were nevertheless the other’s staunchest supporter.

Carey could not return home, because PK could not know the true extent of the Prices’ money woes. He was of such a temperament that Carey knew he would instantly make a proposal, then and there, to keep Carey from any further trouble, and Carey would not - could not - consign him to such a fate as a loveless marriage, even one between two friends as close as they. PK was infinite in his capacity to love. He deserved someone who would return the favor.


	14. Hawaii 5-0 - Wolfpack AU

Danny spends thirty-six hours thinking that Steve McGarrett is a bossy motherfucker even for an alpha, which is a) saying something and b) the exact amount of time it takes for him to wrench McGarrett’s file from the miserable snarl of bureaucracy that passes for the United States Navy. 

And, well. Finding out doesn’t change the important part, which is that Steve McGarrett is still a bossy motherfucker. Danny would have said that only alphas could conscript you into their pack, but then suddenly he stops being Detective Williams, black sheep of HPD, and starts being Detective Williams, lone voice of reason in the governor’s shiny new task force. Reason being defined as: sanity, professionalism, and reading people their Miranda rights, _Steve_. So there goes that theory out the window.

Danny’s not a detective for nothing, though. If the giant truck and the general handsiness weren’t enough, then the fact that Steve always insists on driving would be a dead giveaway. _And_ he never pays for his own drinks, which, hello, who even does that anymore? It’s like the guy thinks he needs to be über alpha to make up for the fact that he’s not an alpha at all, and somehow everyone buys it. Chin definitely knows better (and doesn’t care, because Chin Ho Kelly is his own brand of whackadoodle) but Kono and Max and Charlie and Kamekona let him hug and fistbump and generally bully them into loving him, and don’t even seem to notice what he’s doing. Frankly, Danny would not put it past him to have subsumed half the island into their weird makeshift pack by now, okay? The man picks up _ohana_ like he’s got a giant magnet in the pocket of one of his stupid pairs of cargo pants.

“You’re crazy, you know that?” he says, after Steve’s tossed a perp into a shark cage to stew. Again. Discovery Channel is goddamn amateur hour compared to McGarrett. “Even thinking about what the inside of your head must be like scares me.”

Steve just grins and wraps a massive arm around his shoulder. Knowing him, he’s probably trying to mark his territory. “Aw, Danno. You’re having fun, admit it.”

“Oh yes,” he drawls. “Oodles. Almost as much as poor shark bait there.”

Steve squints at the man flailing and crying in the water. “You figure he’s ready to talk yet?”

“Eh,” Danny says, and doesn’t think about the fact that there’s nowhere he’d rather be than here on this stupid island with these stupid people and his stupid, crazy fake-alpha. “Let him wait. I’m enjoying the sun.”


	15. Hockey RPF - Regency AU (Part 2)

“It’s almost certainly twisted,” Carey says, poking dubiously at his ankle. “Remind me what you’d said - oh, yes. _Don’t worry so much, Price. I’ve never met a lady I couldn’t win over._ ” His face is blank in the way that means he’s trying hard not to laugh. 

“Technically,” PK says, and tries not to yelp as Carey’s fingers hit a tender spot of swelling, “That’s still true. Because she’s -”

“A filly of excellent breeding, actually.”

“I was going to say, _a horse_.”

Carey tuts. “Well, either way, she’s not here to listen to you besmirch her good name.”  

“Indeed she isn’t,” PK says. And good riddance, he thinks, though he’d never say so about any of Carey’s horses to the man’s face. She’s probably already back at the stables, grazing until her master comes home to care for her. 

“And you were just planning on - what, walking back to town?” 

If the Prices had the funds to afford a stable boy, PK would have simply suggested they wait until someone noticed the riderless mare and sent help. But they do not, and so PK says nothing. As it is, the gossip is that young Mister Price will be spending a rare season in London, looking to marry money.

Carey himself has not said a word. He is so prickly about his independence; PK has learned to silently pay off what debtors he can and keep his mouth shut about the rest.

And as for their current dilemma -

“We can surely ride pillion for a few miles, can we not?” Carey looks even more disapproving. PK sighs up at him. “Oh, very well. I have paid _some_ attention to your lectures. But then what do you suggest? Apart from leaving me here for the foxes to devour.” He grins charmingly. 

“Tempting,” Carey mutters. “No, come here.” He gets to his feet and just as quickly squats back down. One long arm goes around PK’s back, the other under his knees, and then -

He doesn’t even have to _try_. He just locks his wrists and straightens his knees and suddenly PK is no longer on the ground. 

PK lets go of the tight grip he has on Carey’s lapels as soon as he notices it. He is no damsel in distress, no matter how quickly his heart is beating in startlement.

In fact, the only thing that’s distressing is when Carey lifts him gently into the saddle and steps away to lead the horse back to town - because PK doesn’t want him to let go.


	16. Hockey RPF - Pirate/Marriage of Convenience AU

“Oh, God,” Sidney moans. “I’m going to have to resign my commission and raise sheep.”

Flower tuts at him. There’s a split-second when Sid thinks his second mate is going to try to comfort him, only then, far too cheerfully: “They’ll probably throw you out before you get the chance. We can be pirates!”

“Best pirates,” Geno interjects, and Flower nods seriously. 

“Fucking amazing pirates.” 

Duper’s voice floats up from belowdecks. “I don’t know how I feel about a career change. Hey, _capitaine_ , if we turn you in, do we get a reward?”

“I’m not going to be a pirate,” Sid snaps, ignoring the way Geno pouts obnoxiously. “ _None of us are going to be pirates_.”

Famous last words. 

They escape the Gulf of St. Lawrence by the skin of their teeth, luck and the wind on their side, and by the time they make it to the Caribbean Sid knows they’re safe. Admiral Lemieux fostered Sid for three years and paid for his commission besides; so long as Mario has anything to say about it, the _Penguin_ and her crew will stay low on the Royal Navy’s list of priorities. 

On the other hand, with Sid gone, there’s no way they’ll keep searching for the real traitor. 

And the beach gets really boring after the first week or two. Most of the men are happy to spend their days drinking and gambling and flirting (badly), but Sid’s itchy, restless. Someone framed him, and they’re still running free. No matter how hard he tries - and he does try - he can’t just ignore that.

“I’m going back.” 

“No,” Geno says, loud and immediate over the chatter of the tavern.

“I’m still the captain,” Sid insists. “It’s my responsibility to clear our names.” Technically, that’s only half true. He lost the rank of captain, along with almost everything else, when they became deserters. 

The responsibility stayed.

“Then I’m still first mate, and I come too,” Geno says, stubborn, and Sid flinches. 

“G -” _You’re the reason they think I committed treason_ , he doesn’t say. There had been a fair number of raised eyebrows when Admiral Lemieux’s young protégé took an escaped Russian as his second in command, but Geno was - and is - a fantastic sailor. Sid’s never had any reason not to trust him.

“Sid,” Geno says now, an echo of Sid’s own frustration in his tone. “I already tell you, three years ago. When you are hurt, I say, _You are best captain_. _I’m always follow._ I _promise_ , Sid.”

A hand thumps onto Sid’s shoulder, and he turns to see Kuni staring mildly down at him. “Can’t force the man to break a promise, now can you?”

“Fuck,” Sid says.

“Funny thing, _capitaine_ ,” Flower intones, sliding onto the bench on Sid’s other side. “I don’t think G was the only one who made that promise.”

“It’s not safe for you,” Sid says, glaring across the table at Geno. “You’re not a citizen, they don’t have to give you a fair trial. Or any trial.” Geno looks back, unmoved. 

Flower shrugs. “Well. That’s easy enough to fix.”

Which is how they wind up standing in front of the entire crew on the _Penguin_ ’s deck at a positively obscene hour the next morning. The news has clearly gotten around: several of the men are holding flowers and pretending to wipe their eyes.

Geno’s got the same half-panicked expression on his face that Sid feels, but he manages to grin viciously when Sid catches his eyes. “We make them sorry later.” 

“Shh,” Flower hisses. “I’m about to start.” He clears his throat. “Dearly beloved, by the power vested in me as ship’s second mate and the best fucking navigator you poor bastards have ever had -” 

“You got us lost in an inn three nights ago,” Tanger hollers, and Flower makes a rude gesture. 

“As I was saying. Do you, Sidney Crosby, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Sid has to swallow three times before he can croak, “I do.”

“And do you, Evgeni Malkin, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” 

Geno still looks a little nervous, but he visibly pulls himself together at Flower’s prompting glance. 

“Da. I do.”

“Then I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may kiss, but please don’t, because nobody wants to see that.” 

“Aw, Flower, you jealous?” Geno smirks. “Don’t worry, I give you kiss too.” And before Flower can duck, he drops a smacking kiss on the other man’s cheek. “Thanks for marry.” 

“Now Sid!” someone shouts from the crowd.

They’re pirates now, Sid thinks. He’s allowed to make Duper walk the plank. 

And that’s as far as he gets before Geno’s hands are warm on his jaw, tilting his face upward, his lips meeting Sid’s for one sweet, chaste kiss. When he pulls back, he’s blushing slightly. 

“Right,” Sid says after a moment. He hopes he doesn’t sound as breathless as he feels. “Let’s go, gentlemen. We’ve got a traitor to catch.”


End file.
